


Until then, we have to muddle through somehow ...

by Der_Katze



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A Very Supernatural Christmas, Brotherly Love, Canon, Christmas, Coda, Coda 3.08, Coda 3x08, Coda 3x8, Coda to 3.08, Cuddles, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode 3.08, Episode Related, Gen, Hurt!Sam, Missing Scene, Missing scene 3.08, Missing scene 3x08, Missing scene A very supernatural christmas, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Snow Fight, Snowball Fight, X-Mas, dean is going to hell, hurt!Dean, or so it seems, tension release, xmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:00:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28054299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Der_Katze/pseuds/Der_Katze
Summary: Missing Scene for 3.08 "A very supernatural Christmas".Takes place at the end of the episode, showing how the evening might have gone on or what my head canon told me.Can be read as a Canon or with pre-wincest undertones, whichever you like better.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam/Dean
Kudos: 12





	Until then, we have to muddle through somehow ...

*

Song: Have yourself a little Christmas – Jensen Ackles & Jason Manns

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RkDgiFgI2ms](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RkDgiFgI2ms)  
  
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZIhZpU64__w](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZIhZpU64__w) – Live Music  
  
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rAU9dVb_8dE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rAU9dVb_8dE) – Live Video aus Jensen Ackles Wohnzimmer

[Lyrics](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/franksinatra/haveyourselfamerrylittlechristmas.html)

Timestamp: 3.08 - A very supernatural Christmas

[Missing scene after the end of the episode](https://youtu.be/W4Coua2rhpA)   


  
  
  
**Until then …**  
**we`ll have to muddle through somehow**

  
  
  
  
**Ypsilanti, Michigan - 2007**

It's the last ten minutes of a rather unexciting Christmas football game, but the whisky fog in Sam's veins makes the grisly 80's colors on the small TV glow. Except for the tinny presenter's voice, everything is quiet. Even in the neighboring rooms. No screaming. No door slamming.

Everything feels like holiday, like a really silent, holy night. They haven't spent an evening like this together in a long time.

He looks over to his brother, who has sunk deeper and deeper into his armchair and still follows the game, eyes half closed with a happy and slightly drunken smile.

They rarely watch football. For Dean it is probably more of an unconscious reminiscence of old times when he watched the game with John at their old home in Lawrence.

He often asked Dean about what it was like there, when they were still a real family. Most of the time his brother got terribly angry. Or sad. Sad was worse.  
  
Dean had celebrated four Christmases with Dad and Mum, even though he claimed not to remember any of them.  
  
One Christmas of his childhood he still remembers vividly. John was drunk, snoring in his bed and he and Dean were waiting for Santa Claus together. Dean must have been about eight, he four. This was, when Dean had told him about the red fireman's helmet, he got that Christmas before the house burned down.  
  
How symbolic, also because Dean probably wanted to already back then help people, without being forced into it.

The Dallas Cowboys' quarterback is being knocked down by one of the Philadelphia Eagles and Sam sees in his peripheral vision Dean's eggnog cup slowly tilting to the side.  
  
Instinctively, he catches it. As he dives forward, his sweaty shirt comes off the green leatherette of the couch with a slight smacking sound. Fortunately, Dean has fallen asleep. Half the evening, he had made fun of Sam because of it.

Carefully he frees the half-full plastic cup from Dean's loose grip and places it on the coffee table in front of them. Dean mumbles something incomprehensible, then he opens one eye.

"Hey, Dean! Come over here, before you fall off that chair!"  
  
His brother nods with a low hum, then navigates his drowsy body over and sinks in slow motion down next to him.

A mumbled "Who wins?", then Dean's head sinks to the backrest. Sam is about to answer "The Eagles!", but Dean's eyes are already closed again, his lips open slightly - synchronized with the quiet snoring.

  
_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_  
_Let your heart be light_  
_From now on our troubles_  
_Will be out of sight_

A grin tugs the corners of Sam`s mouth upwards. Dean like this - carefree and relaxed - are rare – is a even rarer since the pact. His brother never sleeps so deeply and without nightmares.  
  
The dusty atmosphere of the motel room is familiar and homey. This is how the motels, where they usually stayed as children.

Good, he has removed some of the miracle trees from the tree again. The artificial fir aroma is a bit intense. It would have been nice to have real fir tree, just like those fucking gods.

Dean wanted to snatch some of the goodies from the dead Gods, but a raised eyebrow had been enough to dissuade him from his plan. Probably Ozzie and Harriet had baked ground fingernails in the cookies. His finger pulsed painfully at the thought.  
  
For a long moment he immersed himself in Dean's relaxed face. His stupid big brother. Under his thick eyelashes, the blue rings under his eyes were standing out, under his left eye they merged into an emerging bluish-violet bruise.  
  
Why did they have to look like this half of their lives?  
Beaten, wounded and scarred.  
  
From the TV, the fans scream over a particularly successful pass and he tears himself from staring at Dean like a creep, directing his attention back to the game. The cowboys are losing - just like them.  
  
His gaze falls on the presents next to the couch. Typical Dean. It`s not that he had never leafed through one of these magazines before, but it wasn`t actually his taste.  
  
He was happy anyway. Simply because they came from Dean.  
  
The memory of a very special day in the middle of December 1989 chased his thoughts back into the past.  
  
  
  


**Portland, Maine - 1989**

He didn`t know how other families in America celebrated Christmas until he started school. In 1st grade, Mrs. Cooper had asked them to explore about their family traditions before the Christmas vacations.

In the evening, Sam had managed to persuade John to bake gingerbreadmen with him. Finally, the cookies were in the oven. Until then, it had been really nice. John had even smiled a bit. So, Sam gathered all his courage and asked him, why they already opened their presents on the evening of the 24th. Somehow, he had started to understand, that some things were different in their family and that it wasn`t a good idea to talk specifically about those.

„Dad? Why are we allowed to open our presents already on the 24th?“ He blurted out and then waited for a moment breathless, if John would explode in one of his fits, which only left space for one answer: "Yes, Sir!". But he just stared at him. „All my class mates have to wait until the next morning.“

A very sad smile flew across his father's face. "Your Greatgrandma has not always lived in America. When she was thirty, there was a terrible war in Europe and the evil soldiers also came to her country, Norway..."  
  
"Norway?" His eyes grew big.

Since he had taught himself to read at the age of five (and a little bit with Dean's help), it was his great passion to study the road map under John's driver's seat during the hours and days of driving. And so he knew exactly where Norway was located on the globe.

John had looked at him, but his eyes were not really there. He wouldn´t keep talking, Sam was sure, because he had been so stupid to interrupt him.

Dean had been on the couch the whole time, reading a comic. But Sam sensed, that his brother was listening in.

Sam flinched, when John spoke again. "Yes, your great-grandmother lived in Norway. Her name wasn't Winchester." Sam was breathlessly attached to every word. John never spoke of his family.  
  
"What was it?" Dean couldn't keep up his comic charade after all and now stared openly over to them in the kitchenette.

"Landstad. Her father had a weapon company and so they were particularly threatened by the advance of the German enemy troops. In the end, he was killed. To escape the terrible war, your great-grandmother took her daugther Millie, your Grandma Millie, and enterd a boat that took them to England, and from there they fled to America.  
  
"Who is Grandma Millie?" Sam asked at the same moment, when Dean said: "How is that even possible? You can just escape to another country? Also, she probably didn't speak English and didn't know anyone here." Dean sounded skeptical, almost shocked. It might have been the thought that someone could just leave his family like that.

Sam even than, just six years old, had found this idea more enticing. A strange feeling that was swirling through his stomach - not unpleasant. More like it was a chance … But when he looked over at Dean, the thought suddenly didn't seem so promising to him anymore.  
  
Dad had swallowed hard. "My mother... Well, your grandma Millie always said, that Greatgrandma Landstad probably never quite got over the escape and that's why she always celebrated Norwegian Christmas with her.“  
  
"And Grandma Millie? Where is she now? Is she still alive?" The questions were out, before he realized, that those were forbidden ones.  
  
John`s gaze had wandered out of the window. It was snowing heavily here in Maine. A thick white shield, which seemed to glow, so even at night, it was never really dark outside. Sam loved it.

After several minutes, John said to the window: "When I went to the military and then to Vietnam, I ... we had a really, really, really big fight."  
  
Slowly he turned his head back to him, but Sam didn't think, that his Dad really saw him, since his eyes were swimming so weirdly.

"She always said: The war has already taken my father away from me and Henry is gone, too ... She blackmailed me, so to speak: If you go through that door and join the army, you don't come back. And so..."  
  
Dad had run a heavy hand over his face and then stepped towards the oven. "Well, enough of the old stories.“ His voice normal and harsh - Dad turning into John again. Sam was nearly relieved by it. The teary eyed John was even scarier to him than the screaming one.  
  
That evening John sought out his absolution at the bottom of a bottle of „Wild Turkey“, drinking himself into a stupor even worse than usual.  
  
The long-lasting roaring and clapping ifrom the TV teleports him back to Michigan and his snoring brother.

It all is such a long, long time ago. The only family he has left sleeping blissfully beside him on the couch.

The thought of John doesn`t let him out of its grip easily. He is still shaken by the vigorous memory. Carefully, he stretches not to wake Dean and fishes his eggnogg from the coffee table.

"Here's to you, Dad." The swig burns - twice.  
  
As he leans back again, Dean slides closer to him. Sam's not sure, if his brother is awake. His face is tilted to the side and his cheek nestles against Sam's upper arm. Through the thin fabric of his shirt, he can feel Dean's warm breath, calm and peaceful.  
  
It moves him deep inside to see Dean like this. They fight side by side every day, they are the only ones left. They trust each other till death, but still Dean doesn't let him in, just impersonating his variation of „Tough guy with a shit-eating grin“.  
  
At least, after the debacle with Gordon a week ago, he finally admitted, that he is afraid of what is coming. Or at least, he didn't deny it, which is for Dean`s way of treating personal problems as much as a cry for help.  
  
He puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. Damn, he loves his annoying big brother and in the peaceful silence of the room with Dean being out cold, he allows it to shine, gives himself a moment of this pure love.

Well, it is not pure exactly this love. This love is born out of monsters, blood and trauma. Out of thousands of miles of highway, years of drill and training, and out of the fear of finally having seen the other one for the last time.  
  
He flashes back to that electrifying feeling of being six years old and listening to Greatgrandma Landstad's escape story.  
  
Yes, he loves Dean and yes, still he went off to Stanford. Strangely enough, in their crazy family history, this is the part, which still lies stone cold in his stomach – or in his heart.  
  
And which he still does not regret. How could he regret the freedom from the always unfolding and never resolving nightmare, that his – their - childhood and adolsence had been?  
  
And yes, he missed Dean - like an amputated arm - like an amputated heart, but still he loved her too - normality and especially Jess.

He lost them both. And now he would lose Dean as well.  
  
What would he do without him? Continue hunting? Probably not. Maybe he could crawl back to Bobby's for a while. Use Bobby's library to get Dean back.  
  
If it ever came to that...  
  
But they also are not going to solve the problem by celebrating Christmas. Still, he couldn't bring himself to demonize this quiet moment, in which they were just allowed to be brothers.  
  
The thought of Bobby sends a ray of hope. He had always felt at home in Bobby's chaotic and yet incredibly well-organized house.  
  
Dean moves his upper arm as if he knew what he was thinking about. His eyes glide over Dean's chest, which slowly and rhythmically rises and falls. The worn out collar of his shirt reveals a small scar on his collarbone, underneath the black tip of his tattoo is visible, which is also emblazoned over his own heart.

A tug in him to hold the sleeping figure, so familiar and at the same time an unknown planet and they keep orbiting around each other – their paths entwined. He wants to bundle Dean up in his arms. He looks so small right now, as if he is the older brother. Upside-down world!  
  
His eyes wander back to his brother's face. He wants to stroke over it, make the wounds, the tiredness and the worries disappear.  
  
But the wishful thinking of a little boy is just not gonna cut it. This is Crossroads Demons, a pact of Death and Hellhounds and Dean has only 5 months left.  
  
The black cord that disappears between the folds of Dean's shirt, slight bulge under the fabric. The sight stirs up thoughts of ...

  
  
  
**Broken Bow, Nebraska - 1991**  
  
  
He had cried himself to sleep. Reading Dad's journal had been like a punch in the face, his stomach. The content so violent, material for lifelong nightmares.

But the worst part weren`t the monster and the dead, it was the deception. The betrayal. They had lied to him. Dean had lied to him - for years!

The only family he has left are liars. What else did they lie about? The death of his mother? They never talked about her, Dean and John, as if that meant she would die again because of it.

Of course, he had known Mary the least, but that's why he wanted to hear about her. Whenever he dared to bring up the forbidden subject, Dean's face always turned pale and at the same time terribly angry.  
  
John's Diary had been his first uncensored source. Finding the leather-bound monster of a book, despite its cruel content, had – at first - been a relief to him. Finally, the secret was revealed. Written proof, that he wasn`t mental.

Other nights, John staggered in late into their respective motel room of the month, suppressing wounded groans. Sam had always suspected alcohol and bar fights. When he once had carefully peered through his eyelashes, he witnessed Dean stitching up a gash on John`s forearm - with a needle and what looked like floss.

Another night, he had seen John wrestling with a life-sized bag, in the end throwing it into the trunk of the Impala, the bag still fidgeting. When he had confronted Dean about it, his brother had just stared at him for long moments, then broke into an eerie mimic of laughter and claimed that Sam really had a vivid imagination.  
  
Something dark and heavy had settled on his heart then, claiming his life. After having read John`s Journal, its roots ingrained themselves so deep as if to become part of him, maybe to become him.

The next morning he had told himself that it all just had been a bad dream. But it was lies not dreams. Back then, Dean also had claimed that Dad would never let the monsters get them. But John hardly ever was there. Another lie.  
  
It made him helplessly seethe with tears, when Dean officially branded John a superhero that night and everything would look much better the next morning. Just another lie.  
  
So many lies. The only thing Dean had not lied to him about was, that he would always be there for him.  
  
Although - no, not always! There had been a couple of months, when Dean had been 16, in which he had just disappeared from one day to the next.  
  
He decides to ask Dean about those two months. It is never easy to get anything out of Dean about their childhood, especially if it was something ambivalent. Most of the time it turns into a fight.

  
  
They still have 5 months …

  
A stray strand sticks to Dean's forehead. Slowly his brother slides down at his side even more, his cheek leans against Sam`s shoulder. Dean mumbles something like "Sammy". It is peaceful, unlike in Dean's recent nightmares, which they also don't talk about.  
  
In his sleep Dean loses his animalistic, nearly carnal tension, which accompanies him nowadays everywhere they go. It is like a double exposure. This is how Dean would be if he wasn't...  
  
The game is over. The Dallas Cowboys lost to the Philadelphia Eagles. Thank God Dean's asleep. Sam wriggles out under Dean. He presses the off button and the TV picture goes black with an electric hiss and a clack. The motel room is now illuminated only by the cheap green, pink, yellow and blue lights of the little tree.

In the following silence, Dean turns to the other side with a moan.

"Dean?," he asks cautiously.  
  
"Hmmmm?" Dean's eyes are only half open and his big, broad-shouldered brother suddenly seems so small and young, as if he was the older one.  
  
"Dean, don't you want to go to bed?“

„Whaaa?“ Drowsily, his eyelids lift and muttering, he sits up.  
  
After a second or two Dean's eyes widen and Sam doesn't miss his little twitch as if he wanted to reach for a gun, then he identifies Sam and his features relax again.

Bleary, he runs a hand through his hair leaving it standing in all directions.

It happens rarely that his brother sleeps that deep.

"Do we have any beer left?" A first complete sentence.  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh. . . Too bad. ... Then I guess we'll have to get some...“  
  
"Where?"  
  
Dean is suddenly wide awake. Hunter engrained into him - in every sense. His compass will always guide him to the nearest supply of Hunter`s Helper. "There's a liquor store down the road," his brother grins. "You coming?"  
  
Sam looks outside. The curse (or blessing) of the pagan goddess and her husband is truly broken. All is quiet, all is bright. Dancing snowflakes caught in the colorful fairy lights outside. White feathers against the dark.

"Okay. But let's walk!"

For a moment, Dean just holds is hands in a „WTF!?!“ position, his mouth all offended and pouty, like he insulted Baby, then he nods. „Alright, Bitch. You will regret this.“

As Sam opens the door, a gust blows a wave of snow into the nape of his neck. He pulls his scarf higher and puts on his hood. Dean pretends to not care about the cold – at all, like he generally just has stopped caring about anything. Jerk.  
  
"So, where to? Lead the way, you shining knight in leather armour!“  
  
"Very funny, Samm-y. Down that way. It's only a few blocks."  
  
The few blocks make a mile or two, but he's certainly not gonna complain. Besides, it's nice out here. It's almost midnight and there are hardly any cars on the road.  
  
The snow gives the small town an innocent, quiet atmosphere. Everything seems subdued. No reminder of gods that drag human sacrifices through chimneys and now lay impaled in their Martha Stewart house.  
  
The snow makes him think of the last Christmas, they have actually celebrated together. The one in Montana, before he went to Stanford. Back then it had also been just the two of them.  
  
Dean had not known that it would be their last - and neither did he. Not really, because he hadn't had received an answer from Stanford then, but his sixth sense (or maybe he had had premonitions and visions already then) had set off all the alarm bells.  
  
That's why he had asked John to take Bobby as support for the werewolf hunt, instead of Dean. It had weirded him out, that John actually did it – without a longer argument.

Then, it had been snowing, too. And they had also gone outside. Dean had face-washed him so badly with snow that his face had been micro-perforated from the small ice crystals for a couple of days.  
  
Twenty minutes later, Dean says "Well, finally!“ Spirited, his brother steers across the sludgy road to a brightly lit building.  
  
"God bless, America!", Sam murmurs. "The country, where liquor stores are open despite Christmas Eve."  
  
"Especially on Christmas Eve," shoots Dean back. Stupid hunters instincts. A fat grin spreads across his face. "Look!" Dean's eyes wrinkle with joy, emphazising his laugh lines that Sam sees so rarely in the last months. A wreath of empty beer cans hangs at the entrance of the store. "Told you so."  
  
It's this huge grin, that Dean underlines his bad-boy image with and today, Sam – instead of acknowledging it with his trade mark eye roll – falls right for it.  
  
It reminds him of that night at Stanford, when Dean stormed back into his settled life. This is now only two and a half years ago and yes, it was the shittiest time of his life with being dead and then not and all of the things, that happened, but still - he can't imagine a life without Dean.  
  
5 more months.  
  
With their two six-packs of „Margiekugel“ (Not that hippie microbrewery shit!) they set off on the long way back „home“.  
  
Outside the snow has turned into a small blizzard, but at least the wind is blowing them towards their motel.  
  
Dean tries to catch single flakes with his mouth as if he was eight years old again. The snow melts in his hair and eyelashes, makes them look even denser than usual. His rosy colored cheeks shine as well as his eyes and his brother is so … alive, so fucking full of life.  
  
It`s mesmerizing to see Dean like this. And it hurts like Hell – and isn`t that the cry for it all. Even though Dean is performing his usual megalomaniac "Nothing can bring a Winchester to its knees" ego since months, it`s not gonna cut it this time … and they both know it.  
  
It plainly hurts. It hurts soo bad that Sam has to turn his pain into something tangible. And there's Dean. His big brother, right in front of him with his trademark grin like everything's fine.

Sam puts down the sixpack and grabs his brother by the collar of his jacket, brings his face very close to Dean's and hisses: "What the fuck were you thinking?

His words catch Dean off guard. Despite his trained hunter instincts, his brother has nothing to defy the clash, that is slowly developing like a car crash.

The adrenaline pumping through his veins make his peripheral vision blurry. Could also be tears burning behind his eyes.

Dean can probably see them too, because he doesn't fight back against his grip, so grabs Dean harder, shakes him harsh, once, twice until he hears a frail "Sammy…".

"NO, Dean. Five months … Then your "Sammy" is gonna be all alone."

A shaky, rueful smile appears on his face and that's it.

"Fuck, Dean. You, bastard … you are still not taking it seriously!"  
  
He pulls Dean so hard up to him, that Dean loses his grip on the slippery snow, falling uncontrollably towards him and suddenly they are in the snow, Dean heavy on top of him.  
  
With force Sam slips out from under him, throws Dean on his back, sits on his hip and pins his arms down with his knees.  
  
Something darkens in Dean's eyes, like storm clouds brewing and now Dean is fighting back. At first timidly, then more and more violently he tries to get his arms free, but no chance.  
  
Helplessness always stirs Dean`s aggressive side, he should have known. In such situations, Dean develops feral powers. They have often saved them, now they are turned against him and it`s so on.  
  
A brutal pain enfolds on his back. Dean has pulled his knees up, ramming him into his sides and then using his momentum to get free.  
  
A moment later Sam is flung to the side by his jacket and pressed headfirst into a snowdrift. The cold snow penetrates his mouth, his nose and he starts coughing, trying to grab Dean's hands.

As a last resort, Sam knocks Dean`s feet away and with a muffled "Ooooooffffff!" Dean lands next to him.  
  
Sam rolls himself onto his knees, panting. He shouldn`t have underestimated Dean`s will to fight back. A second later, Dean is back on him, fixating him in a nasty choke hold right there in the snowdrift.  
  
They haven't fought each other for a long time. At least, not for real. When they were young, before Stanford, usually Dean had won, simply because of fighting dirtier.

Right now though, he is clearly not giving it his all. Instead, Dean stares down at him. His breath flows out of his mouth in fast white clouds and his face is reddened from the fight.

"Geez, Sam. Are you fucking mental?", still gasping from the fight. Above him, Dean's eyes sparkle and twinkle with adrenaline and he doesn't know if he wants to keep hitting his brother or pull him in.  
  
He takes a deep breath, unable to explain to Dean, which particular devil has ridden him tonight. „No. … At least, not yet.“

Something in his gaze makes Dean realize, that the fight is over. He lets go of him and sinks into the snowdrift next to him.

"Look, Dean," He points up to the sky. Suddenly inside him is calm again.

Above them the wind sweeps away the dense snow clouds, orange in color from the city lights, and the starry sky becomes visible.  
  
  


_Through the years we all will be together_  
_If the fates allow_  
_Hang a shining star upon the highest bough_  
_And have yourself a merry little Christmas now_  
  
_*_  
  
  


He trembles miserably, when they finally stand in the warm motel room again.

"Dean? … Are we... are we okay?"

Dean peels his leather jacket off, that hangs on him like a wet rag. "We're okay, Sammy." He throws a glance over his shoulder and yes, they are alright. "It's, uh…“ Dean sighs through bluish lips. "It's about time we started losing our shit, hmm?"  
  
With his fingers frozen stiff, Sam uselessly tugs at his shoelaces. His feet are numb and feel like blocks of ice, but even frozen toes were worth this little trip with Dean.  
  
Dean draps his wet clothes next to the heater. Sam takes a deep breath when he sees the red scratch on Dean's cheek. Those have not been Ozzie and Harriet from Hell. That was him.

He approaches the wound, then his hand stops midair. "Sorry, Dean!"  
  
"It's okay. There are worse things."  
  
He exhales. Well … He gestures to the six-pack. "Want one?"  
  
To his utter amazement, Dean waves it off. "Too cold." It`s not the real reason.  
  
"Since when don't you like beer? You`re sick?"  
  
"Bullshit." That sounds more like his annoying big brother. "Just … wanna enjoy the evening with you a little longer. It's not like I have to drink myself into amnesia every day.  
  
"Sure.“ This answer worries him more than if Dean would just get drunk like he's done almost every single night for the past weeks.  
  
He even had to up the dose when his tolerance level got too high. Next, Dean would have to switch to harder stuff, if he still wanted to blackout. Probably Whisky. Just like John.  
  
Finally he managed to get rid of his shoes.  
  
Dean steers over to the beds. "I'm still cold thanks to your grand idea." He slips out of his flannel and then laboriously peels himself out of his wet jeans, suddenly standing there only in his T-shirt and boxer shorts. His thighs are still red from the cold and on his right shinbone a huge purple-blue bruise shines.  
  
"I'm really sorry." Sam looks at the strange green of his covers.  
  
"I'm not talking about your freak-out, I'm talking about this great idea to walk there and neglecting my Baby." Dean slips under his blanket with a gasp of relief.  
  
All over Sam's bed are small resinous blue fir wood shavings from Dean's earlier carving action. Of course, they all landed on his side. Somehow Dean always manages to decoratively spread greasy French fries packaging, empty beer cans and used underwear on Sam's bed. He will miss it.  
  
With a sigh he sweeps the wood shavings onto the floor and crawls under the blanket. "Do you still want to watch TV?"  
  
"No, it`s fine, Sammy." Dean turns off his bedside lamp. "Sweet dreams, Dean.“ He means it.  
  
Silence takes over the room, but sleep won't come.  
  
Sam stares in the semi-darkness at the snowy scene on the wallpaper above his head. It looks old-fashioned, but somehow also idyllic. Especially the flying crane, he has taken a liking to in the last few days, nights.

It`s the same every night. They both pretend to have fallen asleep, both incarcerated in their own thoughts. He doesn't know if they will be able to use the few weeks they have left... Will they be able to... use them or Will they make things worse?

A rustle on his left side. Dean turns over to him. "Do you regret that you never had a family of your own? Children?"  
  
His deep breath is probably answer enough. "I ... with Jessica, I imagined that from time to time," he answers quietly into the dark space between them. "Somehow … the idea of my own children, a family of my own burnt to the ground with her."  
  
For a few breaths everything is quiet again.  
  
"But if I... then you could..." Dean sighs nearly inaudible. "I mean, if I... It would be nice to know that..."  
  
He can feel Dean's eyes on him, a warm spot on his face.

  
  
_Here we are as in olden days_  
_Happy golden days of yore_  
_Faithful friends who are dear to us_  
_Gather near to us, once more_

  
"Get your ass out of bed!"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You heard me, kiddo! Now get on with it.  
  
When Dean's like this, resistance is useless, so Sam climbs out of his warm bed.  
  
"Okay?!"  
  
In the dark, Dean lifts up his blanket. Suddenly he feels like the little boy again, who after a nightmare (and there were many nightmares) seeks shelter in his big brother`s bed.  
  
He slips into the soothing warmth, lays down behind Dean. He smells of whisky and beer, a waft of Dad's old leather jacket and … It`s the essence of Dean. He has smelled like this since he was twelve. Before that, his scent had been similar, but a little softer, less harsh sweat. He loves that smell. It takes him home, makes him feel protected and safe.

Dean's hard muscles slowly relax under the soft, washed-out cotton of his T-shirt, where his chest presses against Dean's back with every breath he takes.  
  
It is unusual to lay like this, him as the "Big spoon", as if Dean was suddenly the little brother.

Dean slides restlessly back and forth a few times. "I can't do it like this.... This is too unusual." Sam`s heart clenches, worries that Dean will throw him out again. "Roll over, Sasquatch."  
  
"Whaaa…? … If you command your numerous female acquaintances around like that, I'm amazed that you're so successful," but he turns to the other side.

They immediately find the position that has brought them through countless nights. But they don't fit together as easily as they did when Dean was the bigger man.

Dean nestles up against his back and mumbles into his shoulder. "You can shove your stupid commentaries up your …“ He stops as if he had understood, that this was the wrong place for his ramblings.  
  
A moment later, Dean melts against his back, grabs his hand and unfortunately catches the finger where this "god" took the nail off. He inhales sharply and Dean bends over him in guilty panic.  
  
"It's okay." He breathes into his other hand, the one without pain. A trick he learned as a child from Bobby and still uses - much too - regularly.  
  
"It's fine. ... Used to be easier somehow, didn't it?"

A sad, amused snort from Dean. "The beds were bigger!" Dean's chest vibrates against his back, when he talks.  
  
Their faces are turned towards the window. Outside, it's snowing again. The flakes fall in the colorful glow of the fairy lights outside, looking almost artificial through the green, blue, red.  
  
He wants to cuddle up to Dean, just like he used to do in the back seat of the Impala, press himself against him, climb into him as in those endless motel rooms, when Dad had left them behind and Dean was the only fortress against the world and evil out there.

Wrapped up in Dean's breath and body, he wants to hear that everything will be alright.  
  
"We've been doing this for... for ages," he says quietly.  
  
He feels Dean breathing out, hears his suppressed laughter. "I remember the last time...."  
  
"Re ally?"  
  
"Yeah. We were in Arizona, in this wonderful place called Truth or Consequences. The Rio Grande was just a few miles away from our filthy motel of the week. It was inhumanly hot all summer and you were a sweet twelve year old . Ramona Ramirez broke your little teenage heart at her birthday party when she danced with Chad Miller."  
  
Sam can actually feel the pain. It had been his very first heartbreak ever. But it was nothing compared to what came later with Amy Pond – or of what was ahead of him.

After that, he hadn't climbed into bed with Dean anymore, because he couldn't relieve that pain either.  
  
The pain now, because of Dean, is still not comparable to that. Nothing compares to it. Later, when Dean ... - he cannot think about it.  
  
He turns around, buries his face on Dean's shoulder and Dean grumbles, but Sam knows it's okay.  
  
He carefully places his hand on Dean's bandaged forearm, lets his fingers slide into Dean's hair. When he was young and couldn't sleep, he used to play with Dean's hair. They are shorter now, but otherwise feel the same as they did back then.  
  
Dean responds with a deep sigh, which is interrupted briefly when he probably tries to censor him, but then continues anyways after the awkward pause.  
  
Lately Dean has been more open. It's nice and horrible, because there's almost certainly only one reason for it. But maybe it is just too little alcohol or the blood loss that leaves him a little dizzy and less controlled.

Sam lets his hand gently wander over Dean's side. Dean's ribcage under his fingers feels more bony than he remembers it. He does not eat enough, preferring to drink his meals in beer. But probably it doesn't matter anyway.  
  
In a year, no, in just under six months, Dean will be dead - well, in Hell.  
  
Sam can't imagine what Hell looks like. It's such an abstract Christian concept. On the other hand, they've had enough contact with demons to know it's damn real.  
  
How horrible was it really there? Dad had already been there. When they had seen him again in that cemetery, he didn't seem all that different? Maybe Hell wasn't that bad?  
  
What would they do to Dean there? What would Dean do there? He just couldn't imagine what it would be like to burn in Hell for all eternity? Did they mean the burning literally?  
  
He had to ask Ruby the next time she showed her demon face.  
  
And he? What would he do? Probably go through his own personal hell.  
  
A year from now - and that moment seems only a blink of an eye away to him - he'll be sitting somewhere in this damn country and it'll be Christmas Eve again.  
  
He swallows the hot, choking feeling in his throat, doesn't want to cry now, this right here is much too beautiful for that.  
  
Dean senses him falling apart, because he gently grabs his unhurt hand and squeezes it once.  
  
"I got you, Sammy." Dean mumbles it into his hair and he wants to reply, "Fuck, Dean. I need you." But he just whispers, "I know."  
  
"Dean?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Dean, I'm sorry that I went to Stanford. No, I'm not sorry, but I'm sorry I haven't seen you for four years."  
  
"Hmm... Sammy?"  
  
„Yeah?“  
  
"I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry that I didn't think about what's gonna happen to you when I... when the year's over.  
  
"Hmm.  
  
Dean's pulling him tighter.  
  
Tomorrow morning, his brother will deny everything or at least not talk about getting him into his bed, but it doesn't matter. It just feels good that he did and Sam lets himself fall into Dean's warmth.  
  
Something is pressing against his chest. He turns around a bit and puts one hand between their nestled together bodies nestled.

The warm metal of the amulet.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_  
_It may be your last._  
_Next year we may all be living in the past._  
  
_No good times like the olden days_  
_Happy golden days of yore_  
_Faithful friends who were dear to us_  
_Will be near to us no more._

  
  
_~ * ~_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_*_  
  
  


  
  



End file.
